


Room For Improvement

by susiephalange



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Books, F/M, Female Protagonist, Play Fighting, Pre-Canon, Pre-The Hobbit, Reader is Elven, Reading, Strangers to Lovers, Swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 07:05:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11595426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: Reader is a noble she-elf from Rivendell and after an arranged marriage to the King of Mirkwood, and a year living with the forest elves, Thranduil finds that his wife is not much of a fighter, and takes it upon himself to teach his bride to defend herself, forbid anything happened.





	Room For Improvement

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request from my Wattpad!
> 
> If you've read any of my writing before, you'll know I'm terrible at
> 
>   * writing fight scenes +
>   * writing kissy stuff
> 

> 
> So I've attempted to do both of those things here in this fic. Also, note, I'm only 19 years old, never seen an actual sword fight, have never been in LOTR (as much as I'd wish), and did my best. So please, please be gentle with me.

Unlike most people who dreamed stories and were doomed never to live amongst the fancies and ploys on the paper, you had the pleasure. As a noble elf from Rivendell, the elder cousin of Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond, you were destined to become something of yourself. But while your mind was reading stories of adventure to faraway lands and cultures, the story your life had turned into something more…traditional, for your gender. Marriage. The news came to no shock to you, as you were always to be married off, but to whom? Your heart had almost stopped upon hearing the news.

“You are to marry King Thranduil, son of the late King Orophor,” the message-elf of your father had told you. Perhaps it was for the better your own father did not break the news himself, or he would have had a slipper thrown at him.

You had nodded, and thanked the messenger, and moved to the balcony to ruminate over the news. You could almost hear the people you called friends gossiping when they heard the news of your arranged marriage. _The King? Of Mirkwood? How inane a match for ________!_ As if they doubted a scholarly-minded Elf such as yourself could soar that high, to be considered for the man who had lost his father so recently on the battlefield.

Slowly, you moved to the balcony balustrade, and sinking your head upon your hands on the railing, looked out upon the citadel of Rivendell where you lived, lost in the myriad of thoughts that followed the word passed to you. But lost in your thoughts, you did not notice that your cousin, and confidant, the Lady of Rivendell. But to you, she would always be Arwen, whom you had shared the splash pools of the forest with as children.

“What plagues your mind, ________?” Arwen’s voice came to you, and turning, you saw your cousin. Her brush in hand, she worked on her hair, slowly uncoiling the tangles that followed horseback riding. “You look troubled.”

You nod, agreeing with her wording, “I have just been told I am to wed,” you confess, moving to sit beside her on the chaise. She hands you her brush, and taking it in your hands, you take it upon yourself to detangle your cousin’s hair, and the judgements in your mind.

“Is it the news itself that troubles you, or the match made for you?” Arwen asks. She’s always so eloquent, and wise beyond the years she has spent on this world.

You shrug. “I have always known I was to be married off, Arwen,” you remind her softly, your fingers working around a particularly hard knot on her dark mane.

You think back of when you were children, playing in the halls of the palace. While you had stayed focused on your books, sharpening your mind, she had caught sight of Aragorn, and pledged her love and allegiance before your parents had ever thought their children could fall in love, or fall into a tactical place for love to come later. Perhaps because Arwen was promised, the elite who hid away in their council hall had decided you were the next best noble-blooded She-Elf to be wed away to strengthen allies.

“But what of the match? You have not spoken word of it, ________; I know you, and your sharp tongue well. Are you ashamed?” She implores, pushing for the news to be spilt.

You pause at your brushing. Ashamed? No. Perhaps you are too humble, having spent so long by true nobility’s side, to see that you are worthy of this match, this opportunity. You take time to think of a reply, but Arwen beats you to your answer.

“I think you should trust the judgement of our fathers,” she confides to you, “They could have matched you with the youngest son of the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien,” she reminds you. “Have faith in the Ilúvatar.”

You shake your head. “My faith is unwavering, cousin, and I do not doubt the judgement of the gentry who arranged this. I – I am to be married to King Thranduil, of Mirkwood,” you confess, the words overflowing from your mouth like sap from a wounded tree. “Arwen, I will be so far from you, from home,” you whisper.

She turns, facing you on the chaise, her light eyes full of starlight. “And so close to your fate,” she reminds you, and running a hand through her hair, smiles at the lack of knots. “Thank you, ________ … fear not. I will not forget you.”

* * *

Forgetting one another was not a problem, neither was the marriage. Not a year after the news broke, you were wedded, and lived away in the forest from the Elves you called family. You had come to love your husband, Thranduil, and the people he ruled over in the forest lands where the stars shone so brightly through the blanket of the night. You loved how over time, the king had showed you compassion, and open arms and a larger library than you had ever seen before in your life.

While he was in council meetings to dispel rebels, and consolidate the peace his father had died for, you were away reading as usual, filling your head with the works of the legendary Elves, the long-dead Men, the poetry written down from the faraway Hobbits, reading ballads translated from the Khuzdul of Dwarves. Yes, you appeared when you needed to beside your husband, and yes, you slept when the bed required warming at his side in the sheets, but the library – it called to you loudest.

But on an evening when the stars were bright enough to chart, the moon high, you did not return to the chambers. Instead, you slept at the scholars’ desk, the open parchment smelling so sweetly that it had lulled your mind to slumber. While it was an occurrence that was normal to yourself, having done this many a time in your life, your husband hadn’t known of this practice. It was how you woke to a royal guard calling your name, a hand shaking your shoulder, your husband in the doorway, a relieved look upon his face.

Later that night in your shared chambers, though, it was more of an ordeal. “You mustn’t read past sundown,” Thranduil instructed you, his cold blue eyes fusing a look that could melt steel into your gaze. “And once eaten for the night, return to the chambers.”

“Thranduil,” you scoff, “is that not heavy-handedness?”

He shakes his head, his long hair wavering in the moonlight, turning from your gaze. “It is not, when the kingdom of Mirkwood could have daggers for their new Queen’s heart, waiting. ________, not all are content. You could have been, for all I knew, dead.”

“You thought me dead?” you huff, your eyes wide, “I – I was-am not dead, just reading!” you implore, and stalking to your husband, force him to look you in the eye. “If I am not allowed to fill my mind, it might shrivel up, reduce itself to nothing at all!” You are adamant. “I cannot believe you are so hard-headed upon my only pleasure, Thranduil.”

For a minute, the pair of you are at a stand-still, an impasse. You do not back down; you will not back down on this fight, would never. Whilst over Elves danced and sang, played instruments, had their trades, you had your books, and your hungry mind, devouring everything and anything it could lay its hands on. It was the only thing that kept you sane, in this new land; perhaps, it kept you thinking that you were still and elfling at the bosom of your mother, back in the lands of Rivendell with Arwen not too far away. Slowly, Thranduil nodded, and taking his hand in yours, hummed.

“I would never want to harm your mind, ________, but you must know that there could be threats to us, beyond our control.” He begins, his other hand moving to stroke your cheek slowly, his forehead bowing to touch against your own. “I propose an overture.”

“Yes?” you cock an eyebrow, and clicking your tongue in annoyance, utter, “I am listening, husband mine.”

“You may read as long into the night as you wish to, and for as many a night, too. But there is a clause to this.” Thranduil tells you. “For three hours a day, you will train with the best soldiers and myself, to defend yourself should any attack come unto you.” He instructs.

Silently, you nod. “Starting tomorrow?”

Your husband agrees. “Yes, at midday. Do not tarry, or the library shall be locked to you.”

“Of course,” you huff, unperturbed by his idle threat. At this, you begin to change into your bedclothes, not allowing your eyes to break contact with your husbands as you undress. “But know you are overreacting, Thranduil. I am perfectly capable of keeping myself safe.”

“We shall see,” he replies, and snuffs out the candle by the bedside.

* * *

The next morning, you rose early, and dressing in clothes made for exercise (an event which certainly was not a favoured pastime of yours), you called a palace servant to aid you in tying your hair up and away for the training. You had woken so early, you did not take breakfast beside your husband in bed, nor watched him wake slowly in the sheets beside you. While he was doing such things, you were finding your way to the armoury, and suiting up for the training.

“My Queen,” A Sindarian soldier saluted upon your entry to the armoury, standing stock-still as a statute as your eyes perused the room full of weaponry and bodily protection, “I knew not of your arrival here,” he added, glancing to the otherwise clean room, except for the stray cobwebs that grew upon the uppermost of the vaulted ceilings.

You nodded at his words, “At ease,” you waved at the soldier to not stay at attention in your presence. “I am required by my husband to start a training session with himself. Would there be any sort of…protection to wear for an elf such as myself?” you ask him.

The soldier’s head bobbed at that. “Yes, my Queen. If you shall wish, I can have it brought to you to be fitted?” He asked.

“Yes, please,” you smile.

Not too long after, you are fitted into armour that covers your chest and legs, with leather circlets to protect your arms. Unlike the soldiers who wear chainmail, you look the part of somewhat of a novice, wearing training clothes, or perhaps a babe pretending to dress like the hero the firelight stories told of. But unpersuaded, you are ready to try to do your best with your (non-existent) fighting skills.

It was a good thing you woke before your husband; because only now dressed in the armour, he comes into the room, wearing his, looking like the Gods themselves.

“Are you ready?” He asks you.

You nod. “I believe so.”

Together, you walked to the courtyard, where you had once seen the soldiers training before. This day, it was well-lit, warmed by the rays of the summer sun, much like your childhood home. But now was not a time to be nostalgic. You were here to fight for your right to read the way you had always read. And your husband was a seasoned warrior, ready to teach you the ways of the battlefield that he had known since he was an elfling.

The soldier handed you a sword; you had never held a weapon before in your life, save for a bow in a mausoleum you had broken into on a dare as a child. The sword was heavier than any book you had ever held, and taking it in both hands, you held it at your side, pointed away from yourself.

"You need to defend yourself," Thranduil held his sword like it weighed of nothing but air, pointed toward you. Your mind was buzzing, but most of all, wondering how you were to defend yourself if you knew nothing of how it was to be done. "Then, defend."

Taking your sword, you move toward your husband, the blade moved widely as if a staff coming horizontal to his side. It is as sloppy as it is slow, and he defends your attack before you are even done the move. The sword flies from your hand, your wrist smarting from the jerk.

“Do you require me…?” The soldier asked your husband.

Thranduil shook his head. “No. Thank you, Gwaenor.” As you ducked to take sword from the pavement of the courtyard, Thranduil’s sword pointed at your jugular. It was hardly fair, but you opted to not make a remark on it. Your sharp tongue had gotten you into this mess, and it would not get you out of it. “Do you wish to read your books again?” he taunted. “Prove you can defend yourself.

Pushing the sword from your neck, you stand, your blade heavy in your hands. “Taunting, are we?” you narrow your eyes. “Possibly I would be better suited to a different sword, which I could handle with ease? Or maybe, you could decide to not teach me within a day, and expect progress.” At this, you had your sword up, slashed at his own blade.

Thranduil’s eyes were wide at your move, and as he went to parry, you blocked, the sword heavily held across your body to shield his move from touching you. It was just like you had seen the Elves practicing, in Rivendell; almost like a dance. By the time you had moved the sword, Thranduil moved forward, his blade dangerously close to your side. You knew he did not want to harm you, not his Queen, but the people he insisted would harm you would not hold back. Sidestepping, your feet receded from his reach, and by the time he had reacted, the force of your swing disarmed him, and yourself, the swords clattering to the pavement. The swing from your sword did not end there; no – it led to your feet falling over one another, and your body falling onto your husbands.

Together, you fell to the ground, the clanking of his and your armour filling your ears, your chest hitting his, your hair falling onto his face, your faces as close as they could be in the confines of the privacy of the royal bedchambers. Unlike any other times you had seen his face, though, it was flushed red with exertion, his eyes bright and searching yours as to why the pair of you here horizontal upon the pavement.

“________,” he whispered.

You laughed. “Room for improvement?” you asked him.

Thranduil nodded. “Most definitely,” he murmured, his eyes bright and beautiful.

“That’s good,” you smile. Perhaps it was the blood rushing through your brain, or the sight of your husband, the King of Mirkwood, leader of the army, the man behind most of the tactics of the woodland elves beneath your body, you were not sure, but slowly, you leant toward his lips, kissing them softly. “Then we can do this more often.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


End file.
